


Changing Beliefs

by purplebullet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, One-Shot, PG-13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:56:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplebullet/pseuds/purplebullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An off-hand comment from John has Sherlock eager to change John's mind about certain things. Only he never really needed to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changing Beliefs

John repressed a sigh when Sherlock's ringing phone pierced through the peaceful silence they'd somehow managed to create. He tried to focus on the article about another politician making promises he'd never be able to keep – _been there, done that_ – but found himself listening for clues as to what the phone call was about. Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, already working on an experiment early in the morning, his voice low as he gave the caller short answers.

There was a silent moment, a lot less peaceful than before, after which John heard the chair scratching across the kitchen floor's surface, indicating Sherlock was getting up. He held his breath, wishing almost desperately _not today, not today, not today_.

“You can stop pretending to read the paper, John,” Sherlock called as he exited the kitchen and made his way towards his bedroom. “Lestrade needs us.”

John finally let out his sigh and made sure it was loud enough for Sherlock to hear, adding more frustration to it than necessary just for the heck of it. Sherlock wasn't the only one who was allowed to show his annoyance whenever he pleased.

“It's Sunday,” John said as a way of explaining his reluctance to go see Lestrade, or anyone for that matter. Sherlock appeared into the living room wearing a blazer over his crisp shirt, a small frown on his face that suggested he wasn't following.

“Criminals don't rest on Sunday,” he said a bit slowly, as if he weren't sure that was what John had been getting at.

“I wish they did,” John replied swiftly, closing the newspaper he wasn't going to get to finish anyway, and got up from his armchair. “Even God rested on the seventh day.”

The short huff of laughter Sherlock let out refrained John from going upstairs to get dressed. Instead he gave his flatmate an odd sort of look, frown included, and waited for the clarification he could very much do with at the moment.

“What?” John asked when it didn't look like Sherlock would do such thing spontaneously, and the question made a smile appear on Sherlock's lips.

“Since when are you religious?” Sherlock asked in return, amusement lacing his voice.

“I'm not,” John said simply, and by the way Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared he knew it would've been better not to say anything at all.

“Interesting.”

John briefly balled his left hand into a fist and shifted on his feet. He was fairly certain what was coming next. No point in avoiding it, considering it was his own stupid fault this had started in the first place.

“What is?”

“As a man of the military it would only be logical if you believed in God, or any god, really,” Sherlock said with the tiniest shrug. His disguised attempt to come across as casual was a bit annoying; he didn't know John as well as he thought he did. Not all the time, anyway.

“And why is that?”

A corner of Sherlock's mouth perked up slightly. Out of all the smiles he had John hated his sideways smirk the most, especially when it was in its beginning phase and John could see it slowly grow bigger.

“A soldier gets himself into a heap of life or death situations. Regardless of his training he's still scared to death – which is an ironic way to put it – and with nothing else but hope on his mind he turns to religion and its so-called creator, the god figure, to whom he prays fervently. If he survives, he's very likely to believe in such a creature as God, if he doesn't, well, it's not like he has the ability to think about that.”

John swallowed with some difficulty. He could never stand it when Sherlock talked about war and soldiers; he always managed to appear so superior compared to them, as if he were better than fighting for freedom and sacrificing his own life in order to do it. John had more than once wanted to tell him he had no idea what it was like to be on a battle field and that, since he didn't, he better shut up about it. Sherlock couldn't begin to imagine the fear running through his veins, which could only be diminished by the praying he seemed to find so amusing, and yet here he was, talking about it like an expert.

The problem with Sherlock was that he knew everything in theory, but in practice he was completely clueless about most of it.

“Yes, well, not everyone's like that,” John eventually forced himself to say. It was a lie, of course; he too had succumbed to prayers, the hope there was a god of any kind who controlled his life and would pity him when he heard his pleas, and the only reason he didn't tell Sherlock about it was because he knew how ridiculous he would find such assumptions. It was proof of how little he really knew.

The lack of reply was satisfying. John didn't want to share a cab with Sherlock after he'd punched him, which had been very likely to happen if he had answered him. Perhaps Sherlock knew this as well and had wisely kept his mouth shut because of it.

“I'm going to get dressed,” John said into the silence, and walked off to his bedroom. “Is it urgent?”

“So Lestrade said, but I doubt it,” Sherlock responded. “Better hurry though if we don't want him on our backs.”

So basically there _was_ something urgent but not to Sherlock's standards. They differed a lot from normal people's standards, like Lestrade's and John's. John took two stiles at a time. He only realized he hadn't shaved when he shut the cab's door behind him.

*

“Sherlock, tell me what you've got,” Lestrade all but whined as he followed him, John not far behind. He cast a look to the side every now and then to check if they weren't drawing too much attention. It wasn't every day a detective inspector ran after a stranger – and a rude one on top of that – like a puppy.

“What I've got is a headache,” Sherlock replied curtly, his tone far too familiar to John. It meant the conversation was over. This kind of behaviour towards Lestrade – or anyone, really – was not uncommon, but it didn't stop John from thinking Sherlock was being a prick. Again.

“Sherlock, come on,” Lestrade urged. It was surprising how he wasn't, and never had been, above begging. Most of all to Sherlock. What was possibly more surprising was how Sherlock rarely held it against him.

“Don't call me unless there's an actual case,” Sherlock said, quickening his pace. John had to jog a bit to keep up.

“Just tell me if you know who did it.”

Lestrade knew it too when there was no way to convince Sherlock to stay. He'd learned to play Sherlock a long time before John had even met the man, and knew almost perfectly how to make Sherlock give his best performance. Despite all the insults he'd thrown at him during their co-operation Lestrade had never as much as hinted towards the possibility that Sherlock was a bad man. He seemed certain, so awfully certain, that Sherlock was good at the very core of his being. John was certain of it too, of course, but the police had never been that supportive of the idea. With exception of one.

“You're looking for a ginger-haired, middle-aged man wearing glasses who is either a professional violinist or unemployed with a lot of free time on his hands. He's very wealthy, so don't try the suburbs.”

It was almost predictable, how he'd give in in the end. The only reason John couldn't always say for sure he was going to give away his deductions was because Sherlock tended to act like a nine-year-old who'd just been refused to watch his favourite TV show. Only that Sherlock obviously never watched any shows, unless forced by John, and even then he barely remembered a thing of it. But the comparison was simple and clear.

“Thank you,” Lestrade said with a relieved sigh, pulling to a stop. He gave John a small smile when John passed him, who smiled briefly in return before focusing on Sherlock again. If he was planning on running off to God knew where John would be there to pull him in a cab and send the both of them home; it was still Sunday and John was not going to miss the opportunity to take a rest because Sherlock was moody again and felt like travelling all over London. Not today, at least.

*

Wherever they were it was taking too long to get away from it. John hadn't caught the name Sherlock had told the cab on their way to the crime scene and he hadn't asked, uninterested, but now that he wanted to know he felt like it would set off Sherlock into a rant of some sorts. Which he could do without.

Twenty minutes and still not a familiar block, or park, or _something_ in sight. John had no idea how much longer it was going to take to get home. He sighed, rubbing his unshaven chin. No one had seemed to notice at the police force, so he needn't have worried. Sherlock had told him the same thing before they'd arrived there but, like many other things Sherlock assured him of, John had ignored it. Like how he now ignored the fact that Sherlock had been right.

“Statistically speaking our so called 'rest day' would be Thursday.”

John blinked, the blurry edges of the road outside of his window sharpening again. He turned to Sherlock.

“What?”

“Earlier you implied Sunday was a rest day, whether or not because God made it so, but for us personally Thursday is the day we rest the most.”

John's mouth was open but nothing came out. While he'd caught up with the conversation he had no idea how to reply. Sherlock glanced at him from the side after which he rolled his eyes, shifting in his seat. He did that so rarely John always noticed.

“If you take all the days we spent solving a case into account, from beginning to end, we are mostly not involved in one on Thursdays, which makes Thursdays our very own 'rest day'.”

John still had no clue what to say to that. He briefly considered congratulating him for figuring that out. Then he wondered why Sherlock had kept track of such a banal thing and felt like asking, but he decided not to in the end as he wasn't ready to hear a lengthy explanation he'd have to process at ten in the morning.

“Why Thursdays?” he asked in the end – a sudden thought, a useless thought, a thought he hadn't wanted to say out loud. He could get a lengthy explanation this morning after all.

“Coincidence.”

John raised his eyebrows, taken aback by the answer. After a beat or two Sherlock turned his head to face him, and after taking in his expression, he shrugged. The helpless look on his face, which was as rare as the shifting in his seat, was what ultimately made John laugh.

*

Sherlock was not happy John had taken a seat on the sofa. Sherlock's sofa. Or so he liked to think. John liked to remind him that he didn't own everything in the flat, and certainly not a piece of furniture that had been there long before Sherlock himself. And even if that hadn't been the case John still would've sat on it, because he was no longer in the mood to tire his eyes with words to read, so television was the only option left. He wasn't ready to admit he had reached an age where a nap could come in handy every once in a while, something Sherlock had probably long ago deduced from his toes or whatever anyway, and besides, there was something to falling asleep on the sofa.

Mainly because then there was no way Sherlock could usher him out of it. Also because then John didn't feel as old as he did.

For the time being, however, John didn't feel tired. He knew it could sneak up on him and take him by surprise any time, but he was almost determined not to fall for its tricks this time. Just this once. There was even a fairly good show on TV. A detective series, American, something John couldn't decide he had or hadn't seen when he'd been younger.

“You still manage to astonish me sometimes, John,” Sherlock all but sighed from his spot in the kitchen. It was curious that no matter how absorbed he was in an experiment he could still observe John. The latter had considered several times before _he_ was the experiment, and whatever Sherlock was working on in the kitchen or wherever he pleased was just a way to mislead John.

Despite the possibility Sherlock already knew John was aware of this fact, John had never actually said he was. He wasn't planning to either.

“How so?” John answered after a pause, not bothering to take his eyes off the telly. He'd do so if Sherlock's response was interesting enough.

“Of all the bad detective series you can watch you choose the one where the murderer is known from the very beginning.”

“It's also American,” John pointed out. He was too intrigued by the show to cast a mocking smile in Sherlock's general direction.

“Really,” Sherlock said dryly, “I hadn't noticed.”

He didn't say anything else. John didn't mind, as the episode was still good enough to give his full attention to. It was a bit slow, but the good kind. The Sunday kind.

“Doesn't it take out all the _fun_ for you?” Sherlock asked eventually, sarcasm dripping from his voice. It was very likely he was rolling his eyes extravagantly, a gesture that would go by unnoticed.

John waited a moment to hear what detective Columbo had to say before he replayed the question in his mind and turned his head a bit towards the kitchen, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“It's nice to see how he figures it out,” he said, then reconsidered. “Well not exactly nice, just... nice compared to all the other detective shows.”

“Too dull, are they?”

John managed a smile at last. “It gets boring, yeah,” he said as he crossed his arms and legs, resettling in his spot on the sofa. He heard Sherlock huff out some laughter – his smile widened. On TV the detective was bothering the murderer an awful lot, but the man stayed calm and did everything the funny little man asked of him. Perhaps it was their non-suspicious behaviour that made them suspicious. Or Columbo had a sixth sense. The trench coat he never took off could be the source of his powers.

John chuckled to himself, shaking his head at the direction his brain had taken him to. He let himself slump a bit, sliding down the cushion until the back of his head touched the back of the sofa. If he'd drift off any further, both mentally and physically, he wouldn't see how the detective would solve the case. He couldn't miss that. Well it wasn't that he _couldn't_...

The next time he blinked, followed by a quick series of blinks, the image on screen had changed. Surely there hadn't been any fish involved during the murder?

“Don't move,” he heard from somewhere below him, and far too close to his liking. John looked down warily and saw Sherlock's head lying on his lap. His first instinct was to scoot away from it quite uselessly since Sherlock had taken up the rest of the sofa with his body and it was either that way or John would fall off the piece of furniture.

“What the hell,” he said as his attempts to escape died down. The only thing that would've made this more terrifying would've been if Sherlock had been facing upwards and not sideways. At least he'd spared John from a heart-attack. “What are you _doing_?” he asked angrily, catching up with two facts; the first being he'd fallen asleep after all and the second... well. That one was pretty obvious. “Get off!”

Sherlock refused to. Naturally. With his hair recently cut it was easier to see the side of his face, as it wasn't covered with his curls, and so John could see the frown he was wearing.

“It's your own fault,” Sherlock said accusingly, as if he was blaming John of something entirely more serious – like he was the reason for his drug addiction or something equally bad. “You shouldn't have fallen asleep on the sofa.”

“Wha– You're lying _in my lap_ because I took your spot?”

“Yes.”

“Then– Then why didn't you at least put your feet there instead of your _head_?”

His gigantic, heavy head that had already managed to create some sort of damp on John's trousers. How long had he been there? How long had John slept? And why wasn't Sherlock _moving_?

“I don't like people touching my feet,” Sherlock said, not adding the idiot that was audible in his tone. Like John was supposed to know. He wasn't a mind-reader or a bloody consulting detective for God's sake.

“But your head, which I could crush at _any given time_ and kill you with, that's acceptable?”

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed, “You wouldn't be able to lay a finger on me.”

John was very tempted to put that to the test right now. He let it slide nonetheless, it could wait for when Sherlock was unprepared – or _less_ prepared – as there were more important things to deal with at the moment. Such as why Sherlock was still lying there as if it were normal.

Of all the strange things Sherlock had done, this was by far the strangest. Though, admittedly, that time with the dentures he couldn't stop obsessing about had been sufficiently weird as well. Sherlock was a weird person to begin with. The weirdest John had ever met.

He was living with a nut case.

He didn't know why it felt like the first time he had this epiphany.

“In any case,” John started out slowly, more for his own sake than Sherlock's, who listened attentively no matter the situation. “Get off. Please.”

“Are you going to bed?”

“I– What? Why? What time is it?”

“Almost noon. Are you going to bed?”

John frowned, confused. He ignored the twinge in his neck from looking straight down at his lap like that. Well, at least this time the reason for his looking down wasn't because Sherlock had demanded him to look at his own crotch. That had been a very awkward case.

“No,” he replied after a beat, “Why would I?”

“If you're not planning to move from this sofa then there's no reason for me to get off.”

Sighing in frustration, John moved his hands to Sherlock's head. They got caught before they reached their destination in a grip that could become painful if Sherlock wished so, and he stilled. Right then.

“I'll get off your sofa,” John relented (sort of) patiently, “So get off my lap.”

Sherlock released his hands and complied. His back was turned to John as he sat up, and with a groan John heaved himself out of his seat. He wiped the top of his trousers as if erasing imaginary dust – or in this case, Sherlock germs – and sighed contently at the freedom.

Now then. He could do with some tea.

And some distance from Sherlock's head.

“John.”

John looked down behind him; Sherlock had already repositioned himself on the sofa, head on the spot where John had been a moment ago with his chin resting on the back of his hands. The frown that had settled on his eyebrows had somehow sneaked its way to his mouth.

“You're blocking the telly.”

*

“Are you actually _trying_ to be difficult?”

John frowned deeply at the current situation. Whatever game Sherlock had decided to play all of a sudden when just a moment ago he'd been so interested in his documentary, John wasn't going to play along. Even if Sherlock was practically forcing him to now, with his arms on either side of him, successfully trapping him against the counter.

They both knew John wouldn't need to use much strength to break free. That wasn't the point. When John decided to go physical it meant Sherlock had pissed him off to that level – a level that left the atmosphere in their flat tense like when Sherlock was extremely bored. During those times Sherlock paid no mind to the tension in the air because he had better things to focus on, but as he clearly wasn't bored at the moment John knew such a situation would bother Sherlock now.

So John only needed to wait for the moment Sherlock would withdraw.

He ignored the slight elevation of his heart in the meantime. He was grateful to himself for fancying a cup of coffee – at least he had something to hold and keep him to the ground when sometimes, when Sherlock was close like this, he'd rather... lift off to higher places.

“Sherlock.”

“Don't speak,” Sherlock said before John had even finished saying his name. It was difficult to pinpoint whether he sounded annoyed or intrigued. Or neither.

Either way it didn't hold John back from ignoring Sherlock's command.

“Whatever it is you're doing, stop it.”

His voice was steadier than he felt it was supposed to be. Well, it wasn't as if he had a gun to his head. Only during those times he'd waver and let fear seep into his voice without a second thought. With Sherlock, John assumed, he automatically pulled up a guard. Only when he was this close of course. Otherwise Sherlock would know of his... infatuation. For lack of a better word.

“Sherlock.”

“Shut up.”

John's frown deepened. He held the mug in his left hand and with his right took a hold of Sherlock's wrist beside him. He was all tensed up, muscles straining like he was holding on to the counter as if his life depended on it. It was concerning, if just a bit.

“Are you all right?”

“Don't talk,” Sherlock all but sneered. He narrowed his eyes in concentration. What for, John wouldn't have a clue.

“Did something happen?”

“Shut. Up.”

They weren't getting anywhere like this. John looked Sherlock in the eyes a bit longer before he twisted Sherlock's wrist in a way he knew would be painful and, predictably, Sherlock fell to his knees with a pained look on his face. It was rare for Sherlock to be taken this off guard. But perhaps that had been on purpose, as some sort of test. Perhaps not. John wasn't going to try and find out and make a fool out of himself after which he'd get lectured or something.

He gave Sherlock's wrist a final squeeze before he scooted away from the counter, then made his way to the living room. If Sherlock wasn't going to watch TV any longer then John would claim it for the meantime. It'd do him good to have something distracting him from Sherlock's scent that was going to linger far too long.

*

John woke up with a start when his bedroom door was thrown shut. He was already scrambling to his feet when his eyes found Sherlock, who looked nothing like either a burglar, terrorist or as if he were in a hurry to solve some case or other. John eased back on his bed and pulled his feet on it again, tucking them beneath the sheets. Then, when the situation caught up with him he faced Sherlock with a frown.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need your help,” Sherlock stated. John kept up the frowning.

“You usually just shout when you need me,” was his confused answer.

“This isn't a usual call for help.”

John went with a hand through his hair and looked through his room; the orange glow of the sun coming from outside his window said he'd only slept a couple of hours, hadn't slept through the night. The morning sun wasn't as bright as this one, that much he'd learned over time. The book that hadn't been interesting enough to keep him up was lying beside him, closed. John let out a sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck, turning back to face Sherlock again. “All right,” he said with little reluctance,

“What is it?”

“Get up, wash up and follow me,” Sherlock instructed instantly, quick to exit the room and walk downstairs rapidly. John sighed again. He almost regretted his choice.

He held his head for a few moments – it felt heavy with the sleep that hadn't gone out of his system just yet. He wouldn't get much time to recover, though, knowing Sherlock and his tendency to just go off by himself. John closed his eyes and took a couple of breaths, and waited until most of his brain was capable of thinking properly again before he got out of bed. He was quick to find a pair of socks and had barely put them on when he headed down the stairs, off to the bathroom where he briefly checked his face in the mirror and tried not to look like he'd just woken up. He was standing in the living room within a minute. It was either the speed or something else entirely that had Sherlock giving him a surprised look.

“Ready,” John said. He cleared his throat to lose the hoarseness in his voice.

Sherlock looked him up and down and then, without a word, stepped close enough to pull John's shirt straight and leave every patch of skin it was supposed to cover covered. John only breathed out again when Sherlock was nearly at the front door.

Right. He wasn't doing so good with the not getting caught bit.

*

Well, he was properly confused now. It was a bit concerning how often he got into this state after he moved in the flat with Sherlock.

John waited for Sherlock to order his meal (which was a surprise in itself) and the waiter to leave before he leaned over and asked, in a lowered voice, “What's going on?”

“We're having dinner,” Sherlock replied with a touch of confusion in his own voice, giving John a light frown. “I thought that was--”

“Obvious,” John cut him off – he was tired of hearing that word. “Yes, it is, but. Is that really all there is to this?”

“I don't follow.”

John snorted. He didn't care for the looks two nearby costumers shot at him. He'd learned that from Sherlock, the not caring bit. Well, not that John had ever cared all that much about other people's opinion to begin with, but, well. He liked that Sherlock supported that part of him, albeit unconsciously.

“Right, and I'm actually Santa,” John said sarcastically with a smile on his lips. Sherlock mimicked his expression but didn't reveal anything. It was one of those things then. “Is it for a case?”

But Sherlock didn't eat during a case. Of course it was utter shite that digesting slowed him down, but whatever. Most of the time Sherlock believed what he wanted to believe anyway. No point in trying to convince him otherwise. John of all people would know.

“Something to celebrate, perhaps?” he asked gently, feigning innocence. No harm in that, celebrating. It was fun. Unusual for Sherlock to do, but that was kind of his thing. Expect the unexpected with that man.

“Please, if I had something to celebrate I'd take you to an actual restaurant,” Sherlock lectured, though the kind look on his face said he didn't mind John's presumptions all that much.

“True,” John allowed. He pointedly didn't look down at his casual shirt that wouldn't even allow him to set a foot in the kind of restaurant Sherlock would celebrate things at. The grin Sherlock shot him suggested he knew John was restraining himself. John didn't bother asking how.

They looked at each other in silence. It dawned on John, not for the first time, that even after all the months he'd spent with Sherlock, after all the cases he'd helped with, he still wouldn't be able to deduce anything from the man before him even if he tried his hardest. It was a saddening, if not embarrassing fact, if only a little. Then again, if John figured out how to do it, it wouldn't be so much fun to watch Sherlock in action.

“Why thank you, John,” Sherlock suddenly said, “I'm glad you enjoy watching me _perform_.”

John blinked rapidly and furrowed his eyebrows, mouth opening to ask the obvious question, only to have Sherlock interrupt him before he could get a word out.

“I'm sure I've told you before but you've got the most expressive face I've ever seen.” Sherlock smiled. “It's child's play to follow your train of thought.”

Actually, he'd never told John such thing. John knew he was easy to read but the reason why had only been revealed to him now. He wasn't sure whether he liked it.

“Thanks?” he tried. Sherlock's smile widened, and he shifted on his chair as he leaned over subtly. John did the same, ears already perked, and by the time Sherlock's lips parted there was already a different smile playing on them.

"About needing your help,” he began, in which John couldn't help but notice was an excited tone of voice, “I'd like you to start doing that right now.”

He gave John no time to process his words; Sherlock abruptly turned in his seat until he was facing the back of the customer behind him and held a gun to the man's head, eliciting screams of terror from the other clients almost instantly. John was alerted as well, though he took it a whole lot better than everyone else in the not-quite-restaurant. He wasn't even sure what to call this dump. It didn't matter, either.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?”

He didn't get an answer to that either. The threatened man appeared to be not as harmless and innocent as John had initially thought, as he very quickly and professionally managed to take over the gun from Sherlock's hand and point it to Sherlock's own head. John's heart was in his throat in a moment, his mind blank for a beat or two.

When it got to working again, the man had already pulled Sherlock from his seat, revealing he was even taller than him, and was sneering at everyone to “lie the fuck down”. He liked to curse. He didn't know why, but somehow that struck John as something important.

As everyone, John included, obeyed the man's orders Sherlock was forced to kneel. He didn't look stirred in the slightest, almost bored even, and it was that 'almost' that caused John to pay attention to the look in his eyes and see what was really there. The message was easy to get. All John had to do was wait, and he knew it wouldn't take long.

“Excuse me, if I can interrupt,” Sherlock piped up politely, sounding far more innocent than he was. He looked up at the man behind him, ignored the hand that tightened its grip on his shoulder. “Could you do me a favour and ask for the bill? I've got a doctor's appointment, you see.”

The doctor one, then. Been a while since they'd done that one.

The man predictably looked to the back of the restaurant automatically, in search of a waiter perhaps, even though it wasn't very likely he was going to grant Sherlock's strange wish. The momentary distraction was enough. Sherlock took a hold of the man's wrist and snapped it, and while he unarmed the man John took a crouching position and shouted for everyone who thought the worst was over to stay down. They all listened thankfully, and screamed once more as Sherlock shot the entire place to pieces with the gun he'd retrieved. The man he'd taken it back from was lying unconsciously on one of the tables.

Once the bullets were all out – or Sherlock was no longer in the mood to shoot – John flew on top of him and they wrestled a couple of moments, grunting here and there for effect, until Sherlock let John win and it was all over. John took a few more ragged breaths before he looked up towards the customers, and spoke to them the magic words that set them at ease instantly.

“Don't worry, I'm a doctor.”

People, John had learned, would accept him without question even if his line had nothing to do with the current situation. After all, a doctor wasn't taught how to take down a possible nutter. Then again, John wasn't an ordinary doctor.

*

“So who was he?” John asked later on, when they were walking back home from the police station.

“International jewellery thief. I just happened to stumble on his whereabouts.”

John guessed the homeless network had helped him a hand.

“And I had to come along to catch him because...”

“Because this was the perfect opportunity.” It was hateful when he was being mysterious.

“Perfect opportunity for what?”

“To catch him.” John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock smiled. “And to prove once and for all there is no god.”

John frowned. He hated it even more when Sherlock was being ridiculously random.

“What?”

“I wasn't prepared for his retaliation and therefore I could've been killed, which wouldn't have been prevented by either me, you or anyone else in that excuse for a restaurant praying for my safety. Conclusion: there is no god.”

The morning air felt a lot colder all of a sudden.

“Did you... Did you seriously just risk your own life to try and prove God doesn't exist? For _no good reason_?”

“I didn't try, John,” Sherlock replied proudly, “I succeeded.”

“Yeah,” John snorted, “I don't think so.” Sherlock's surprise was wonderful. “Oh come on. It's going to take a little more than that to convince the average Christian God doesn't exist.”

Sherlock slipped into confusion. “I didn't do it to convince the average Christian,” he said slowly, his eyebrows furrowed together. It was the kind of expression he normally hated to show, but once in a while however, when he was caught off guard, he'd let the look rest on his face as if it had always been there.

“You... did it to convince _me_?” John concluded, incredulous.

“Of course,” was Sherlock's immediate reply, his frown only growing deeper. “Who else would I need to convince?”

There were plenty of answers John had in mind, some clever, others not so much. But then his brain got the idea to translate Sherlock's last statement, and he when he understood the true meaning behind his words John decided to let the subject rest.

_Who else would matter?_

*

“In a way it does make _me_ your god,” Sherlock said one late night, scaring John out of his half-asleep state with a snore that he'd never admit was his. He blinked repeatedly as he looked around the room and saw Sherlock in the chair beside him, eyes on the television screen.

“What?” John asked when he was assured the remnants of his dream were just that, remnants of things that could never be true. He felt himself breathe a little easier.

“Since I decided our fate back in the restaurant I am, or could be, your god.”

John scoffed at the theory, gaining Sherlock's attention. “Gods are saints. Of all people you're most likely to be the exact opposite.”

Sherlock looked actually happy at that, like John had just complimented him. In his mind, John probably had.

“Then logically speaking I'm your devil,” Sherlock responded with an air of comfort around him that was likely worrying. It no longer affected John, the strange aura that surrounded Sherlock and was just a tad too dark to be comfortable with.

While John wouldn't go as far as call Sherlock a devil (or _the_ devil, going by some of the Yard's employees), he did rather like the possessive pronoun that went with it.

*

He had a piece of toast in his mouth and was pouring himself tea when it dawned on him. And with the courage he had somehow gathered along with it (or was it coincidence? Luck?) John put the kettle down as well as the toast, to make his way into Sherlock's bedroom for the fifth time ever since he'd met him, where he watched him sleep for a minute or two before he woke him up.

Sherlock was, and always would be, at his most normal during or shortly after sleep. The same grumpiness as any other human being, the same turning away from whatever had pulled him out of his slumber, the same groaning and sometimes even mumbling under his breath. John wasn't sure, but he thought he'd heard Sherlock mutter some formula or other. Dreaming about experiments, maybe.

“Sherlock,” John said gently, and it was the soft tone that had Sherlock turning around again, “Wake up.”

Sherlock squinted his eyes open and pulled a dubious face, as if he were expecting John to attack him any moment after another failed shampoo experiment. Which reminded John he needed to do that as well. It'd have to wait.

He was silent until Sherlock was properly looking at him, giving him all his sleepy attention. He was on his back, wearing a white shirt and probably boxers, and his hair was curled in the wrong way. Really ordinary. Almost boring.

John leaned over to place his hands on the mattress, then leaned into Sherlock's face. Sherlock's lips were warm and dry; John felt his own were too wet. But he was kissing Sherlock, and he felt liberated. When he pulled back, it was to see Sherlock's eyes flutter open much like a maiden. The resemblance caused John to laugh softly, ducking his head in a weak attempt to hide it. Never good to laugh right after you just kissed someone.

“If you ever call me a maiden out loud I'm going to start a fungus experiment in every corner of your bedroom,” Sherlock threatened, but his voice was so comfortably low that John wasn't even considering taking him seriously. “What's the occasion?”

John chuckled, growing embarrassed – he hadn't confessed in decades – but was luckily cut off by Sherlock's not so secret obsession to hear himself talk.

“Told you,” he said smugly, drawing his words out as if to make sure the mockery with which he said them would be heard.

“Still doesn't make you a saint,” John responded easily, and kissed him again. He'd say it was to wipe that smirk off Sherlock's face, but he knew better. They both did.

**Author's Note:**

> I realize this ending might be a bit confusing, which means the entire story was kind of confusing and pretty much makes you wonder, "what's the point of this fic?"
> 
> Well: Sherlock wants to become John's 'god' (i.e. most important person), but little does he know he's been John's god all along. But I didn't want to put that in the summary because then it'd betray too much of the story imo. Sorry for the confusion!


End file.
